


Sleeper

by rothalion



Category: Army Of Two (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 00:19:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10978434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rothalion/pseuds/rothalion
Summary: After two days of drunken debauchery, while on leave, Tyson Rios discovers a bit more about Salem, which changes his opinion of the younger man.





	1. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salem is restricted to quarters after a fight and the team goes off on leave without him. Returning early, Rios discovers a bit more about his recalcitrant charge.

SLEEPER

1

 

Rios turned and waved back at Salem who sat defiantly behind the team’s ready room desk. The younger man flashed him both middle fingers. The squad was going out for the weekend and their youngest man was stuck back at the barracks serving a two week long restricted to quarter’s punishment for fighting with a member of the French Foreign Legion. Had the fight been over something reasonable, First Sergeant Gabe Benedict would have overlooked it, but Salem had started the brawl over a verbal gaffe. That and Salem had been ordered to steer clear of the French troops.

            After the exterior door banged shut, Salem dropped his head down onto his crossed arms on the desk. He was stuck, alone in the barracks for three days. He hated being alone unless he was hunkered down in a hide with an objective to keep his wandering mind focused. Three days alone on the team’s empty floor was going to drive him mad. At the sound of footsteps, he sat up.

            “Boys are off, and I’m gone too, Salem. The place is all yours. You have your orders. You have the SOP, and you know the drill. Chow hall and back here. I have eyes on you, Salem, and besides that, I hope that I can just trust you. Can I Elliot?”

            “Copy that, Top. Restricted to quarters, two weeks. Field the phone calls, complete my chores list and stay out of trouble. Have a good time, Top.”

*

            Out on the town, Rios did his best to forget about Salem. It irked him that the younger man was edging into his mind. He tossed his duffle onto the small, sagging hotel bed and then stood with his hands on his hips staring down at it. Behind him, Giddy drew open the heavy, dust-cloaked, sun-bleached curtains and winced at the glare. Down below the weaving lines of battered cars fought for ground, as pedestrians struggled to move between them and not be killed.

            “Place is a dump, but at least it’s not the fucking barracks.” When Rios only grunted, he turned around and stared at the bigger man’s back, “Hey Tyson, you hear me?”

            “I heard you. What time are we meeting the others? Or are they planning on staying balls deep in the brothel?”

            “Fucking, more so than drinking. You know them.”

            “Right, well they can have it. Me, I gotta fucking pain in the ass corporal to drink out of my aching head. Let’s move out. I can taste oblivion from here.”

*

            Back in the barracks, Elliot wadded up a softball sized clump of masking tape and then shook his hand vigorously to dislodge it into the waist basket. Top wanted the new paint job in the hallways to be two tone. Mint green from the ceiling three feet down and from there to the black tile floor Sea Foam green. The request, order really, required Elliot to run a straight line of the four-inch wide tape the length of the hallways. This would insure that the cut off between the chosen colors was a clean, straight divide. The ball of tape was the result of his third failed attempt at getting the line straight on the east side of the south hallway wall. He had to work around a fire extinguisher, the water fountain, and a bulletin board, and in the process, he kept losing his positioning.

            “Take a break, Salem,” He said, and then plodded to his room down the center of the hall, his unlaced boots clomping as he walked. It felt a liberating not to have to skirt the right-hand wall in an effort to protect the shiny tiles. The scuffs didn’t matter. His next chore, after painting, was buffing out the floors.

            Once inside, he made straight for the bathroom and stepped up onto the closed toilet seat. After pushing the ceiling tile aside, Salem fished around until his hand found an air conditioning duct cooled bottle of beer. He took it down, stepped off of the toilet and stared at the tempting drink.

            “Fuck it. Top didn’t say diddly shit about restricted to water. ‘Sides, he’s long gone and no one will be the wiser.”

            Conscious cleared, Salem banged the lid off on the sink counter with the palm of his right hand and chugged half the bottle in one shot. Then, sighing contentedly, he traipsed back out to where his masking tape awaited him. One hour and forty-five minutes later, Elliot finally managed to complete the last wall. Proud of his success, he stepped back, took a drink of his fifth beer and studied his handy work.

            “Just in time too, Elliot. There’s only a foot of tape left to spare. Oh, and wouldn’t that be a terrible thing if you had to stray from the chow hall path and over to supply to get more. Or, better yet, sneak out to find some near where those Legion fucks keep their beer. Damn, I am truly da bomb.”

*

            While Salem toiled away with his painting, Rios was hard at work drinking. He enjoyed drinking. He enjoyed drinking but didn’t consider that _enjoyment_ a problem. He wasn’t, after all, like Salem who drank to get lost, to forget his life and his problems. No, Rios thought, ‘I drink, because, like right now I just feel like getting hammered and forgetting that I am actually, unlike Salem, responsible. I actually own my problems.’ If nothing else, the big Ranger figured, it all sounded good anyway.

            Rios waved at the rail thin barman to bring another round of beers to their table. The man appeared nearly emaciated. He was thin and his skin, coal black and shiny was stretched tight across his boney features. Tyson knew, though, that if the man was working, he had food. So, the poor fellow must just be thin by nature. Giddy kicked his left shin under the table and shrugged.

            “What the fuck is eating you, Tyson?”

            Tyson shook his head and yawned, “Nothing. Thinking about drinking. Thinking about drinking and fucking, Salem.”

            “You’re thinking about fucking Salem? Yea, I’d say that would require some drinking to actually do, but…”

            “No, god damn it! Not _fucking_ Salem. Fucking…The boy drinks for all the wrong damn reasons, Phil. And he drinks a lot. You don’t see it like I do.”          

“There’s a right reason?”

            “Righter than some. Thanks, keep the change. Righter than some, and he’s got it all wrong. Especially being so young. Has a lot a bad drinking years ahead of him that one. And, I figure, behind his ass too.”          

            Giddy slammed back the shot that Rios had poured him and studied his friend across the small, spilled drink tacky table. The slowly whirling ceiling fan cast regular pale shadows across his gloomy face. He looked, to Giddy, almost silly with his elbows atop the tiny table, small glass clenched in his big fist and his massive head slumped a bit between his huge shoulders. The older man, though, was more than familiar with Rios’ brooding, and drinking usually intensified it. What was shocking, to him, though, was that Rios was brooding over Salem. Typically, the problem was his less than faithful girlfriend, Samantha. Having heard those sad sack stories over and over, Giddy was quite glad the brooding had shifted its focus.

            “And, when did you start caring?” Giddy said breaking the silence and pouring them each another shot of the cheap, tepid whiskey. “Had it figured that you’d ride him hard and put him to pasture wet, as soon as we head for home. Sooner if you could manage an excuse for it.”

            His friend’s words stung Rios a bit, but the burn of the whiskey going down shook him from that twinge of guilt.

            “That’s harsh. Fuck Phil, I-don’t-know.” He said, sitting back in his creaky chair, staring up at the fan with his hands, fingers intertwined atop his bald sweat beaded head, and counting its slow revolutions.

            “He’s a good soldier, Tyson.” Giddy said after a bit, and then when he felt that Rios was paying attention again, “He’s a good soldier and a good friend. Well, he would be if you gave him half a chance. Thought you were drinking to forget him.”

            Sitting back up Rios pressed the heels of his hands into his blurry eyes. They burned a bit from the incense burning in the bar to mask the smell of sweaty bodies. He felt dizzy. Watching the fan while being seated, and drunk had messed up his equilibrium. Friend? He’d never asked the boy to be his friend. He didn’t even want him for a friend. He didn’t need the headaches that he knew, from watching Salem’s behavior, would come with the title of friend. The boy was a lost cause. He had enough on his plate. Reaching out he lifted the maple-hued whiskey bottle and held it up to the fading sunlight sifting into the shabby bar through its gray, dirt smudged windows. Then, tipping it slightly, in the brightest ray, he tried to ascertain how much of the draught was left.

            “Nearly out. The next one’s on you.” He slurred hoarsely while filling their glasses. Then, “What do you think…he’s gonna do when…he gets out?”

            The look on Giddy’s face told Rios that the question was actually as absurd as it sounded.

            “How the hell should I know? What interests me more is your sudden concerns about him.”

            “Not concern, Phil, curiosity. He is a certifiable curiosity. That and a sociopath, I think. I looked it up. Psychopath maybe. Either way, a path, and I don’t want to go down it, that path. Friend? You know he can pick locks. I don’t mean like we were taught but really pick a lock. He can read lips too. Photographic memory, I think too. It’s called Eidetic memory. He has it, Phil. I looked that up too. Supposed to be mostly in kids, but…I don’t think the fucker ever grew up so it fits. And math, he’s all over that shit. Well and…well…”

            “Then stop riding his skinny ass Rios and accept him. Fuck, swallow your god damned pride already, and admit he’s good kid.”

            Rios slammed back his drink, chased it with warm beer and sat up straighter. He didn’t ride him. Well, maybe just a little, but the boy needed discipline. Someone had to play the bad guy. He refilled his glass and held the empty bottle upside down over it for a long while as if the act would magically create more of the foul brew. Giddy snatched it from Rios’ hand and waved it at the bar.

            “I do not ride him, Guidry. I _discipline_ him. He needs it, discipline. You don’t live with him.”

            “No, I fight side by side with him Rios, and all he has ever done is prove to me how disciplined he can be when the game calls for it. You might want to slow down on the booze there, Tyson. It’s still early and…”

            “Fine, I…am just fine. Don’t think he has family.”

            “Everyone has someone, Rios.”

            “No, Phil, not him. I think we’re all he’s got, man. You ever think about what that would be like. We’re gonna get off a that plane in six months, and we’re all gonna have _somebody_ waiting, and Salem…well that boy don’t have nobody, Phil. He’s gonna walk right past us all hugging and holding our families, and the signs and, and just disappear. It sucks. Fuck, I hope he doesn’t fuck up the painting. It’s mint on top and Sea Foam on the bottom. It’d be just like the little bastard to do it backwards outta spite too. Hey! Barman where’s our fuckin’ bottle? Getting fuckin’ dry over here! Move your scrawny ass!”

 

           

           


	2. 2

SLEEPER  
2

Salem jumped up and down on the five gallon, drip clad bucket of Sea Foam green paint, wobbled slightly when it threatened to tip, and then smiled when he heard it snap shut. The north hall was finished, and he would still make it to the chow hall ten minutes before the last service. He hopped off and pushed the half-full bucket aside.  
“Dinner here I come.” He said to the newly painted walls. “Dinner and after a teeny-tiny little detour through the Legion’s camp, beer for dessert.”  
Mission dictated, he headed out of the barracks building into the cool Djibouti night air and made for the chow hall. Once inside, he grabbed a tray and filed along behind the other last minute diners. No one spoke to him. No one looked at him, and he didn’t really mind. As far as he was concerned, his family was out on the town. He found a table in the back corner and sat so that he could see the door. Dinner that night was meatloaf, pale, finger thick orange carrots, mashed potatoes and a crumbly square brownie for dessert. After studying the bland offering bemusedly, he dug in. Food was food, and Salem was simply glad to have it.  
As he chewed, Salem let his mind wander to Rios and the guys. By his watch, it was nearly 2200 hours, and he knew, from experience, that they were all, with the possible exception of Giddy, drunk and happily fucked. No, he corrected himself, probably repeatedly fucked. More power to them. Fucking was a base instinct, a desire that needed to be controlled, and besides that, he thought, while twirling, and bouncing a bendy carrot on the end of his fork, fucking in the brothels was like, he held his thought, shoved the carrot into his mouth and considered what it was exactly like. Frowning at his loss of words, he poked at the brownie. It was, Salem finally decided, like sharing toilet paper. No, it was worse, much worse. It was like when a mother bird regurgitated food for the baby birds. Again, he shook his head at his own musings. Nothing seemed to wholly describe his disgust at fucking a woman right after your best buddy did. Suddenly, the brownie took on an ominous cast, and he tossed his napkin over the offending square, stood up and moved onto the next step of the night’s mission.   
The Legionnaires’ camp was dark and quiet. Earlier reconnaissance had shown him where and how often their sentries made the rounds, so recon was not an issue. This, Salem thought, was a damned good thing, because he didn’t have long to complete his objective and get back to the barracks in case the telephone happened to ring. He could only claim to be, at chow or in the bathroom for so long and for so many times. When the last lazy guard ambled by, he slid down from his rooftop perch, onto and then behind a garbage dumpster and alongside the door leading into the Legionnaires’ supply conex. Using only the meager moonlight to guide him, he quickly used his lock picks to defeat the door’s dual locks. Then, he was inside. Once he’d pulled and locked the door behind himself, Salem shrugged off his three-day pack, and with his small Maglite clenched between his teeth began stuffing bottles of the Legionnaires’ favorite beer into it. Kronenbourg, it wasn’t his first choice but alcohol was alcohol. The pack easily held a case and a half of the brew, which elicited a smile from him. Load complete, he moved to the door, killed the light and listened. All was silent, and Salem slid back out into the alley way.   
Now, was the tricky part. As stealthily as he could manage, Salem climbed onto the dumpster, checked his surroundings and then, using a downspout for a ladder, scaled the side of the building and rolled onto the roof. From there, he was home free. The roof adjoined an empty mechanical shed, and once he cleared the eight-foot gap to it, he was, as he liked to say, golden. On the ground again, strolled onto the road and casually and made his way back to his barracks. As he passed through Alpha company’s grounds, the Ranger spied a fire extinguisher hanging from a pole near their front door. Seeing no one around, he slipped it from its hook and moved into the deep shadow along the building’s wall.   
“Perfect.” He purred contentedly. “Fuck a brothel. I got beer, and I got a way to chill it. I’m god damned golden.”  
*  
Back in his barracks, Salem made straight for his room and stowed the beer in the ceiling hidey hole. Just as he was finishing up, the phone rang startling him.   
“Shit! I’m coming, I am coming.” He hollered into the deserted hallway and jumped off of the toilet.  
He dashed down to the ready room and grabbed up the receiver. Before he finished the proper answering reply, Gabe’s voice interrupted him.  
“Are you okay?”  
The unexpected question caught Elliot off guard. Was Gabe checking on him? Why? Why would anybody take time from their precious leave to check on him? He didn’t really matter to anyone. A pang of guilt flooded him. Was he okay? He was more than okay, but he was actually shaking slightly. He’d broken Gabe’s rules. He’d misbehaved, broken a trust and while fifteen minutes ago it all seemed like great fun, now it suddenly felt all wrong. He recalled Gabe’s words, ‘I have eyes on you.’  
‘Fuck! You got this Salem. Just breath and lie. You’re good at lying,’ he told himself, then “Hey, Top. Am I fine? Why wouldn’t I be fine? You? You good? Me, I’m golden.”  
“Golden, well I suppose that’s a good thing, golden. I was just making sure you were alright in that empty building. Gets lonesome, Salem.”  
“Yea, but with your list of jobs, I was too busy to think about it. Got the north hall hundred percent and the south hall’s taped for tomorrow. I’m a paint slingin’ fool.”  
Gabe chuckled, “Good. Did you eat, Elliot?”  
“Yup, lunch and dinner chow.”  
“Yea? What did you eat?”   
Salem cringed. The situation was getting strange. ‘Fuck,’ he thought, ‘damned good thing I’m not in the brothel. He’d want to know what color condom I used and how I did the nasty deed.’  
“Grilled cheese at lunch with chocolate milk and a strawberry eclair for dessert and meatloaf and carrots for supper, with chocolate milk again. Passed on the brownie it looked like a turd.”  
“Good.” Gabe said chuckling again, “So, you’re staying out of trouble?”  
That hurt Salem a bit. He’d thought Gabe was checking on his well-being, but now it seemed he was checking because he didn’t trust him. Well if that’s how he felt, Salem thought, he’d show him.  
“Of course, Top. You know me. I did the painting and ate like you wanted. Then, on my way back from dinner chow, I pilfered a coupl’a cases of that shit beer from the Legion and a fire extinguisher from Alpha Company to chill it with. Didn’t get caught though, so technically I am outta trouble, right? So, when we hang up, I’m just gonna kick back on the couch in the common area, drink my beers and watch Leave It to Beaver and Mayberry RFD all night, so as to learn what it’s like to have a real family. Sound good? Sound safe?”  
The silence on the line was expected and Salem patiently waited it out. He actually felt better. He might have strayed from the chow hall path, but he’d been completely honest about it. Didn’t that make up for breaking Gabe’s trust? Was it his fault if the First Sergeant thought he was joking? Before he could puzzle it all out, Gabe was back.  
“Good, good, well as long as you are alright, Elliot. That’s all I need to know. Look you need anything; you have my contact number, right?”  
‘What the fuck!’ Salem thought, ‘Good?’ Didn’t the man care if it was all actually true? Did Gabe really think that he was capable of that sort of behavior? He’d just accepted his report which meant that he did, and it pissed Elliot off. Gabe didn’t trust him. Or did he?   
“Ah, yup, I do at that. Thanks for checkin’ in on me Top. Salem out.”  
True to his plan, Salem set up ten of his pilfered Kronenbourgs in his shower like bowling pins. Then, he pulled the pin on the fire extinguisher with a flourish.  
“Grenade out!”  
The extinguisher blasted to life, showering the green bottles with a flurry of white. He held the flow steady, as the bottles toppled, and when they were all on their sides, he stopped. Then, he shook the red canister to check its contents. He had plenty for the next batch. It didn’t really matter though because they were easy enough to ‘acquire’. He shoved his chilled beers into a battered red cooler, marked for transporting blood for transfusions, and settled on the common room couch. Within minutes he was watching Leave It to Beaver on the VCR.   
Eight beers and five episodes later, Salem stumbled off to his room. He stashed the two remaining Kronenbourgs in the ceiling, checked that the shower was clean and climbed up into his bunk. He tossed and turned for twenty minutes, and then, pillow in hand, crawled into Rios’ bunk. He could smell the man, but smells didn’t equate to safety. Still, out of sorts, Elliot sat on the edge of the tussled bed and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Intrusive thoughts, mostly dark, were keeping him from settling, despite the beer. Why, he wondered, why was he able to spend days on end in a hide alone behind enemy lines and without support but here in his own room he was a mess? Focus on an objective he understood, but still…  
Finally, Elliot stood and shrouded in Tyson’s blanket he shuffled to the open door of his room. The floor was silent and dark. The odor of new paint quaffed out that of Rios’ blanket and Elliot again felt cut off and isolated. The doors were all closed and locked, and the thought of others, his team who he trusted, locking their doors, keeping him out sent a pang of sadness through his chest. Determined to sleep, Elliot dragged his blanket down from his bunk, wrapped it over Rios’ and moved to the small space between his locker and the wall at the end of the room. It was barely large enough even for his small frame, but he pulled both wool blankets tightly round his shoulders and slid down into it. With the building’s block wall pressed against his right shoulder and the locker his left, he finally felt safe. And there, in mere moments, he was sound asleep.


End file.
